Prologue
by AgingMoss
Summary: The kindling of a passion, and the execution of a plan. Snape fiction. ¦¬,
1. Foul Weather

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling will own everything except Sasha Winters, Richard Ferlong, a few others-etc. etc.   
  
Author's note: This is somewhat of a "part one" of a longer story. Give it time, I like to draw things out a little ¦¬,  
  
Prologue  
  
Chapter One:  
Foul Weather  
  
  
It was too windy to be considered hot. The harsh gusts thrashed the sparse trees until they swayed in a perpetual slant. The sun was clouded and the sky was a sickly gray. The air, however, was heavy and sticky; an unusual forecast for the far north region of the United States.   
  
The little coffee shop on the corner of Park Avenue was just as humid. The back of one's shirt would cling to the chair; hair would stick to the neck and forehead, only to be blown about again by the wind. The steaming coffee only added to the discomfort and people squirmed in their seats. Sasha sat beneath the shade of the coffee house, stirring her now cold coffee in a torpid silence. Her eyes traced the outline of Fern's Cup unconscientiously over and over, while her one stagnant hand rested upon a thick volume. The title was concealed beneath a stained brown paper cover. The birds pecking near by suddenly took flight in a foul commotion as a group of people bustled by.   
  
"Damn Muggles," she muttered, being aroused from her thoughts. She frowned down at the full, yet cold cup in her hand and whispered a heating charm over it. Picking up her coffee, book and umbrella she traveled down the street, avoiding contact and discourse with anyone. Sasha's disposition was quickly failing along with the morning weather. Opening her umbrella, she felt the first drops of rain.  
  
Perfect. She mentally cursed Stephen for sending her to this continent. Surrounded by hundreds of Muggles and this abhorred atmosphere, one could choke on the exhaust and fumes that flowed from those loud, metal contraptions that rode around on the pavement. She looked up wearily and scanned the eyes of a person walking towards her. They seemed to dull. They showed no interesting emotion and she lowed her eyes back to the ground in disappointment and disgust. Of course, she mused, muggle London was not much different, but the wizardry community at least had none of this. Again, this brought her to think of Stephen. Her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed involuntarily. This was most definitely all his fault. Turning a corner, her meditations were suddenly cut short.   
  
The thing that she had collided with was quite solid and unyielding. She fell and hit the wet sidewalk with a gasp of shock while her umbrella crumpled.   
  
She looked up into a pale and calm face. The man that now held out his hand to her was rather short. That, of course, would have to do with her position, but when she accepted the proffered help she realized he was a head shorter. His look was of mischief and humor, and when he smiled a mouth of crooked yet white teeth gleamed at her. Sasha was indignant at his calm demeanor.  
  
"My apologies, I did not see you." He smiled again and didn't seem to notice when she pushed his hand away that was still restraining hers.   
  
"That," she said dryly, after a minute of gathering her things, "was obvious." She collected her umbrella and bent for her book. Another hand came down and snatched it up before she could, however, and Sasha's displeasure heightened. This was not what she needed at the moment. Straightening and glaring at the man who obtained her book, reached out a hand to take it.  
  
"Very interesting thing you've got here," He remarked coolly, though inwardly nervous courtesy of her obstinate manner. He tapped the book and made to open it when she stepped forward threateningly. He glanced at her, his eyes roving her highly appealing figure. Her face had a foreign beauty, though, in his opinion, her ominous eyes were uncommonly veiled. The colour was intriguing in it's self, however: a shrewd, deep sapphire that far surpassed dark, endless pits. Her dark brown hair was erratically French-braided to the back of her head, as strands fell out at the sides and into her eyes she pushed them aside with a silken indifference.   
  
"Would you like to have some coffee?" He asked suddenly while holding the confiscated book to his chest. Sasha quirked a disdainful brow. Was this man, this impudent, bothersome, wretch of a man actually inquiring to steal more of her schedule? She could have laughed had the situation not been so irritating. Her time and patience were quickly coming to a sharp end. She remarked evenly,  
  
"No thank you, but I would give me that book instantly, heartily apologize for inconveniencing me, turn and walk away in that direction as speedily as you can, with dignity of course." By the time she was finished her voice was strained and there was a slight twitch in the fingers of her right hand. Her eyes sparkled unnaturally, giving them an even more eerily spectacular effect on the man. Again she extended her hand and again it was denied its true prize. The man chuckled and took her hand for the second time into his and shook it slightly.  
  
"Richard Ferlong. There is a restaurant down the street," he said after a moment, "my treat."   
  
The insolence of this thick man was clear now. What would Stephen have to say when Sasha got back in London saying that the volume had been in her hands one moment and stolen by a sniveling muggle the next? Now a little more then anxious to have the possession back, she smiled pleasingly, deciding to take a new position.  
  
What Richard saw was rather fetching. The woman's eyes were hard and cold, haughtily disgracing him in only the silent way they could, when her features suddenly relaxed. They became warmer and to his absolute pleasure she smiled a generous smile. She held out her arm enticingly, and with much vigor, Richard took it. She began to lead him down the street.   
  
"If you turn here the restaurant-no, not here-what are you doing?" The man had hardly enough time to pronounce the framed sentence when she dragged him out of the main street and into an alley. It was wasted and dim, though when inside the overhanging shadow one could see every detail. Sasha pushed the confused man away with undisguised disgust. He was composed enough, though his eyes betrayed a feverish anxiety. Coolly Sasha removed her wand and stepped closer to the man.   
  
"Do you know what this can do to you, what I can do to you?" It was quite audible, yet barely a whisper. Though there was nothing initially to be afraid of he shivered at her silken voice. Her words were innocuously spoken, the meaning so very overcast, but the darkness gave her quiet terms and soft motions a sinister and dark appeal. Richard found himself wishing she had become angry. Cold, humorless eyes and their owner's body that seemed to slither out of the darkness towards him caused a spasm of insecurity. All too quickly he realized how vulnerable he was, though why, in the face of this harmless woman, he was at a loss.   
  
"No, I didn't think you would. Would you like me to show you, then?" Sasha answered her own question just as she had asked it, and not waiting for a reply, flicked her right wrist.  
  
The heavy tome flew out of Richard's hands and landed safely in the arms of his apposer. The woman still pointed the polished stick at him with her book tightly clutched in her left hand. Her expression was unreadable: pale and serene with those eyes just as deep and unyielding as before.  
  
Sasha turned on her heel and stalked out of the damp alleyway. It was still raining, and raining heavily, and no sooner had she stepped out of the shadow then the thick, fat raindrops splattered against her. Sasha had left her crippled umbrella at the corner, and of course, it was nowhere to be seen, though her spilt coffee cup lay trampled and sodden in the flooding curb.   
  
No sooner had she stepped out into the pouring rain then a firm hand arrested her. She wrenched it away and spun around being ready to face Mr. Ferlong once more, but the face she turned to see was much more agreeable to her then the former would have been, yet the face of a stranger.  
  
"Well, when Stephen said you weren't back yet, I never thought I would find you harassing the local Muggles." The voice was harsh and dark, matching perfectly the eyes that accosted her with formal disdain. She had no time to protest as her tall acquaintance pulled her into the alley and disapparatated.  
  
  
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~  
  
  
"So?" He had his arms crossed over his chest and was scrutinizing her with hollow eyes. She faced him in her mopping, drenched robes, shivering and dazed.  
  
"So what?" She asked calmly. This calmness was not of serenity but of nothingness. Her limbs had become burdensome weights, her drenched clothes difficult and wretched. Her mind was dazzlingly blank and clear, her thoughts seemed to be clotted and slow.   
  
"So where is my book? Pray you haven't lost it," he sneered taking a step closer. Sasha gazed into the disdainful face. It was too pale, she mused; a sallow colour that accentuated his pitch hair and eyes. His hair was shoulder length and glossy, giving it a greasy, oily appeal. The nose was generous and his mouth was thin and bloodless. It gave the owner a fierce countenance. The eyes were his most startling feature, however. They were deep and endless: swirling black wholes, an endless abyss, where, if you were to be sucked in, you would be lost forever. Most were at his mercy in those eyes. Most.  
  
"Severus Snape, then?" Sasha had wondered about this customer for whom her latest errand had been the courtesy of. His tastes were foreign and strange, thus her trip to America. Four other requests had sent her to Romania, Germany, Croatia, and Senegal. Quite specific and strict orders on the volumes, and most of the books had been on ancient potions, prospective volition, and foreign liquids. Somewhere she had heard that he was a professor, and by his product selection, she had guessed poisons, potions, or elemental brewing. The tome she had tucked under her muggle clothes was especially difficult to obtain. Not only had Muggles, one hundred and fifty years prior, confiscated it, but it had also been shrouded in muggle security. One's wand doesn't enjoy performing magic in air gushing with waves of technology. If the alarms, security, buttons, knobs and magical low profile were not enough, the location was truly troublesome. The book had been displayed in a glass case, underneath other dusty volumes, in a Muggle museum.  
  
Her guest had an odd expression on his face. It was the animalistic character of curiosity and scorn, though, however raw it had been it was gone when Sasha blinked.  
  
"Yes," he stated inclining his head in a jerked movement. Sasha only nodded and said, "Sasha Winters," and turned in the direction of her room to change into a pair of dry robes.   
  
"My book?" He sounded incredulous and irritated. Sasha stopped only to pull out the thick tome from her apparel and change her mind. She handed it to him and began towards the door leaving dark, wet footprints on the carpet.   
  
Sasha had noticed his hands. She had watched them as they had deftly taken the book from her. They were as pale as his face, the fingers slender and swift. They looked calculated; as if their job was to perform exact, efficient movements. The palms were wide, the narrow shafts of his fingers looked calloused yet soft.   
  
"Where do you think you're going?" Again his whispered voice arrested her from her sunken speculations. His voice could have been carried away on the slightest breeze of wind.   
  
"To exchange this American Muggle money. You have your book, now I presume I need not stay here any longer." She didn't wait for his reply but opened the door and left.  
  
  
~~~ ~~~ ~~~  
  
  
At least she could go home now, Sasha mused. Stephen wouldn't be pleased that the customer grew so impatient that he came for the tome himself, but it was already done. She had only been three days tardy, and only because of the ancient book's former location and situation.   
  
The rain had not let up and Sasha could feel the water running down the sensitive skin of her back. A full bag of galleons, sickles, and knuts pulled at her belt. She trotted softly behind an abandoned shop and dissapperated.  
  
With a slight pop she reappeared in her rented apartment. It looked deserted, and Sasha relaxed as she made her way toward her bedroom. When she opened the door a ruffling gush of icy air wafted into her. This, amplified by the fact that she was wet to the bone, caused a violent shiver to run through her. The only other occupant looked up and steadily cast his pitch eyes over her trembling body.   
  
"What are you doing?" Sasha hissed angrily as she eyed the smoking cauldron and the blue flames that licked the black pot. Ingredients were arranged on a high table near the brewing potion and on a similar high stand rested the opened volume. The brown paper had been removed, yet the title was resting against the stand and unreadable.  
  
"This potion can not wait. Your own tardiness has caused this inconvenience," he snapped. He was now paying no more attention to her then he was to a passing fly. She stood in the doorway sometime, observing his movements, murmurs, brewing and his reading. Every now and then he would turn upon the book and read swiftly, then back to his potion and cauldron.   
  
Sasha didn't know how long she stood there, long enough that she lapsed into another reality. Severus Snape, if what she heard from Stephen was true, was a professor. What could he possibly need with such a rare specimen? She wondered if he had any connections with Durmstrang. She had never seen him before, especially not while she was in school there. Her youth was marked by tragedy, first the death of her mother when she was two years old, then her father a few years after Durmstrang graduation. She remembered the graduation, how she had wanted to see the rest of the world.   
  
  
---  
  
Gruetcher shook her hand tightly and came forward to give his honored student farewell. They shook hands and at the last moment he pulled her forward into a restraining hug. The girl flinched and tried to pull back, but he held her tight and whispered softly in her ear, "Goodbye Sasha. Good luck to you and God bless."  
  
She pulled herself away and bowed curtly, inwardly sick and nauseated. Gruetcher was a cruel man. He was of medium height and a hard demeanor. He was usually silent and haughty, reminding Sasha of the school's hall statues. Karkaroff was watching them from a group of his friends. Sasha walked past them when he stepped into her path.  
  
"Sasha," he said approvingly. She nodded in return and made to sidestep him. He caught her arm and turned her around.  
  
"Where are you going so soon? The ceremony isn't nearly over." He was grinning as he looked over her shoulder towards the doors. "You seem in a hurry to get away."  
"Goodbye Karkaroff, maybe one day I shall have the misfortune of seeing you alive and well."  
  
  
---   
  
Severus Snape looked up from his completed work. She was still standing there, shivering and wet. Her eyes were glazed over and her lips were firmly pressed together. They had taken a blue tint and her cheeks were very white. Her hands were balled to fists and she gazed at the opposite wall with a vacant look. Snape stepped closer and reached out a hand. He touched her arm and shook her.  
  
Sasha drew away from him and glanced at his former occupation.  
  
"Finished? Already?" She glanced up at his face and caught his eye as he was watching her. Her head felt weary and her legs weak. His stare was cold and penetrating.  
  
"You're still wet," he said coldly. It wasn't a question, but an accusation of sorts.  
  
Sasha didn't feel wet, she felt tired. The cold wasn't there anymore; it was just a shadow of fatigue that loomed over her now.  
  
"I need some rest, you may leave whenever you wish. If you speak to Stephen tell him I was detained," Sasha said softly. She moved past the tall professor and into the bedroom.   
  
"No," Snape said at length. "I am to accompany you back," he said this as if he would rather not think about it. "Stephen wants to make sure that you get back in one piece," here he paused.  
  
"It was the only way he would allow me to come and get this, if I got you back to London on my return."  
  
Sasha only nodded and crept off to bed, shutting the door politely yet purposefully, not even bothering to care where Snape slept or went.  
  
  
  
~~~ ~~~ ~~~  
  
  
Sasha slept until the sun was at its peak the next day. She awoke to a fit of violent coughing, slid out of the bed, still coughing, and crept to the bathroom. A few minutes hot gushing water was running over her naked form.   
  
The steamy shower was relaxing but she could not shake the coughs. They were rough and searing, always shaking her whole frame. After the shower she dressed and left the room. As another fit approached, Sasha crept into the living room, and veered for the couch. One cough followed another; soon she was clutching her torso, doubled up in the attack. When that had subsided, she straightened, instantly clutching her head as a wave of dizziness washed her senses. Her eyes were shut tight as the pain and nausea subsided. When she opened them she noticed Snape standing near the window watching her. His eyes were unreadable, or at least in Sasha's state they were.   
  
She conjured two cups of tea and walked over to Snape.   
  
"You're ill," he whispered as he took the offered tea. Sasha gazed into her cup then removed her wand. A whispered charm poured medication into the liquid. She looked up at Severus Snape once more then sipped down the drink.  
  
"I believe I am. It is the weather," Sasha added gesturing to the window behind Snape. "Stephen will have to wait. I think I should stay here until I am well, as much I as I desire otherwise."  
  
Snape seemed to consider this.   
  
"I used to be a Potion's Master, you know," he said evenly.  
  
"Yes, I know. A professor somewhere," Sasha said as she watched the clouds through the open blinds. She wasn't really paying attention to what he had said.  
  
"Hogwarts."  
  
Sasha nodded and began to retreat back to her bedroom when the wracking pain of her current illness hit her once more. She stumbled and fell.   
  
Someone grabbed her from behind and held her up as the seizure passed. She was faint and delirious as two firm arms carried her to the couch and wrapped her in a blanket. Everything was receding into blackness as she drifted off into a merciful slumber.  



	2. Bitter Tidings

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters, they are the proud and magnificent property of J.K. Rowling.   
  
Author's note: This chapter is rather short, I wanted to get this over with. I have chapter three finished, but I think I'll wait for some reviews before I put it up ::wink wink::.  
  
Prologue  
  
Chapter Two:  
Bitter Tidings  
  
  
Sasha passed in and out of consciousness throughout the rest of that day. None of those brief periods when she wasn't asleep were pleasant. The night came upon the world stubbornly, the sun died slowly, spilling dark, vibrant blood over the sky. When all that disappeared and all that could be seen through the curtains near the couch was black, starry sky, Sasha ventured to get up. Before she was far, one arm grasped her shoulder and guided her back to her former resting place.   
  
She protested groggily but the firm escort only put a goblet to her lips. She resorted to glaring at Snape from above her cup. The liquid burned and the aftertaste was disgusting, but she washed it down and handed the empty goblet back to Snape. He took it and urged her silently to lie back down. She relented and soon she was fast asleep.  
  
The next morning Sasha awoke and found herself somewhat well. The potion of the previous night had worked, beside the drowsy consequences. Sasha had dressed and was sipping tea on the balcony when she heard, more then saw her silent visitor step out into the light. He was watching the street below, but his mind was elsewhere, she knew. As Sasha was making to go back inside he spoke.  
  
"The potion has worked?" It was still stern and quiet, commanding a response. Normally she would have retorted cheekily, but not after someone had been so kind to her. She found his manner rather amusing, and played off it in something akin to the same way.   
  
"Yes, thank you. I am going to travel back to London tonight," she paused expecting a reaction, and when he stayed silent she continued, "if you would kindly tell Stephen I will not be coming back to The Golden Quill, the next time you may see him, I would be grateful."  
  
An emotion flittered across his face briefly, and he took a step forward as he spoke.  
  
"What? Where will you work? Surely you won't stay in America?" Snape sounded incredulous but his emotion was checked quickly behind the usual mask of imperialism. Inwardly Snape was frustrated and rather sickened at himself.   
  
"No, I will not. I can barely stand it here as it is, "she looked around at the buildings she could see with mild dislike.  
  
"I see," he said softly then walked back inside leaving her outside in the warm breeze with her thoughts.   
  
"What was this?" something screamed in his head as he collected his things. The cauldron seemed heavier then it had ever been, and his tools, vials, scrolls and ingredients were like scattered bits of burnt wood after a campfire; soon to be carried away by erosion and still no one would bother to pick them up. Despite the agile movements he made his mind was not so composed.  
  
"Concern for an aggravating woman whom has wasted enough of your time already," he picked up his quill and parchment, "and for you to even care is more then enough reason to wretch upon the floor," his cauldron and bottles soon followed, "now think of it no more, you have a job to do in a few months, we must prepare," the ingredients disappeared along with scrolls and notes, "and for god's sake Severus, buy some new dress robes!" Everything was gone, except a very thick tome lying closed; it's title facing the sky. A long, pale finger twisted over the gold, cursive lettering following the language closely with his tip as if soaking the knowledge through those short words into his very veins. The book then too, disappeared.  
  
He came upon Sasha, for what he thought would be the last time, reading The Daily Prophet. A strange owl was sitting on the windowsill chirping lightly as it pecked at a piece of bread at its feet. Sasha's face was more interesting then these two things, though. Her eyes were rather too large, which was slightly frightening, as the dark blue, watery depths grew larger; overflowing as in a downpour.   
  
Her brow was slightly furrowed and the hand holding the paper open was clenched too tightly, causing creases to spread like a web outward from the small hand.  
  
She looked stricken-if Snape was one to exaggerate, he would say. He neared her calmly and, as her back was to him, glanced over her shoulder to read the front page. It read:  
  
  
17 MUGGLES AND 6 WIZARDS DEAD  
  
An event which has caused an uproar all throughout the wizarding community is that of last night. Six families, five being muggle and half blood, the last a pureblood, were murdered last night, all in ten minutes of each other. Aurors responded to the calls quickly, only to find the charred remains of the families floating as a gruesome memento some twenty feet in the air. One of the victims was none other then the newly married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Havering, coming from quite an old line of purebloods. Is this ripple of violence some cruel demonstration that no one is safe? We have from authority that…   
  
  
The article went on to say more on the location and other suspects. Sasha felt Snape's presence behind her and turned slowly to face it. She looked up into his hard features, looking for something she couldn't find. His brow furrowed slightly at seeing her expression. His mouth was set grimly in a straight line and his eyebrows didn't twitch. Suddenly Sasha realized her eyes were damp. She thought swiftly of turning away, but she could not…she could not avert her eyes from his. Sasha had once warned herself against the dark, hollow tunnels set before her, she had known the danger that lie in those eyes. Instead of all she thought, she let a single tear roll down her cheek and knew it could not be helped. His eyes were sweeping over her face like flowers in a windy field, she thought. His eyes flowing in waves across her features, pausing when he drifted across her eyes to stare down into her soul.  
  
"Who were they," Snape asked softly, directing his stare on the page he had read. She followed his gaze and reread the important name three times before answering, keeping her head facing the tabloid.   
  
"Cousins. Not too closely related," she stopped afraid she might choke upon her words if she continued. A lump had formed in her throat and she coughed slightly before finishing, "they were expecting a child. A boy, I remember. Tom had always wanted a boy…"   
  
Another tear followed the first and she hastily wiped it away only to have a few traitorous more slide down after. She shivered and covered her face to turn away but was stopped by a soft hand on her back. It pulled her close to an uncomfortable warmth, yet a reliable, strong chest which she gladly rested her head upon as silent tears drained from her eyes. She remembered the look on Tom Havering's face when he had proudly announced the news. "I am going to be a father!" He had shouted grasping any pair of hands he could and shouting with joy. It was carved into Sasha's memory permanently. That look of absolute ecstasy in his eyes, his lips never faltering from the brilliant smile, and the healthy blush in his cheeks as he rushed around in bliss. He had been gorgeous. It was his happiness that had made him so. The light in his face. The light in his eyes. The light in his future. Now it seemed so vibrant, yet cold, this memory she held. For it was like watching a movie twice: you already knew what would eventually happen and there was nothing in your power to stop it.   
  
Snape held this sobbing body steadily yet cautiously. Never had he held a woman like this to him. Never had he allowed it. That jeering, cold voice would return to him, horrified with the situation it was witnessing, soon. Yet it did not. All he could hear was a slight humming in his ears that frightened him beyond what and conscience could ever do.  
  
Sasha felt the arms that had wrapped around her protectively slacken and fall away. She had the initial, horrifying feeling of drowning, but in an instance she had regained some sense and composure and turned her back on the Potion Master.   
  



	3. Veteris Vestigia Flammae

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of the infamous J.K. Rowling, except Sasha and a few others.   
  
Author's Note: I actually wrote this a long time ago, but since nobody was reviewing (glares evilly) I decided to wait…sounds like someone else I know…  
  
Prologue  
  
Chapter 3:  
Veteris Vestigia Flammae  
  
  
White, intoxicatingly white, and not only this, but rippling, swaying and blowing gently; the shadows played in and out of the transparent cloth while it bustled in the breezy air. The wind would pick up slightly, tousling the curtains and some items strewn about the room, before dropping back down to the normal, low hum. At one of its peaks the wind flipped the pages of an old newspaper lying dejectedly on a couch-side table.   
  
The sliding, glass door was wide open, surrendering to the breezes that blew ruthlessly into the small apartment. This door led out onto a high patio, which overlooked a frosty, Muggle city. A woman sat on an iron deck swing outside, despite the biting cold and the wind that blew her hair into her eyes and across her face. Her eyes were closed and the wind seemed to thrash at her defiance. She has played this game before, this match with nature that ended, always, in a draw.  
  
She has pulled her legs up and encased them in her arms as she faces the west horizon. Soon the light will fade and the fiery ball of radiance will dip below her vision leaving the trailing cape of starry sky in its wake.   
  
…  
  
"He hasn't left yet," Sasha thought dimly as she gazed into the sky. A bitter cold was nipping at her cheeks and fingers making her eyes water with the chill. She had pulled her knees closer so she could rest her head on them. Snape was still in the apartment, though after they had seen the newspaper he hadn't said one word, neither had she.   
"This is nice…" her mind said drowsily as heavy eyelids drooped. The wind did nothing to avert her psyche's destination, only adding to the numbing sense of slumber. The setting sun blurred as a curtain of blackness fell over her eyes, the lead that had formed on her eyelids finally becoming too heavy. She drifted away silently, the whisperings of the breeze no longer present while her dreams formed.  
  
They were misty at first, but as the fog cleared she found herself at Durmstrang, talking to her owl, Hermes. Sasha looked down at her young self, at the thin age of 14, caressing the bird with the back of her hand and making soft noises from the back of her throat. Her image sat upon a collection of flat rocks under a naked tree. Frost clung to her robes and hair, the ground was covered in a fine layer of snow and the air was chilly with the winter season. Sasha saw someone coming near her image's stony perch from behind walking quickly and clumsily. It didn't take long before the younger Sasha turned around and peered from behind the tree, noticing them as well. The one form turned into two people as they neared, furiously walking for her rock. Hermes shifted from one leg to the other and both the young and older Sasha looked at the owl, one in mild confusion and concern, and the other with knowing breathlessness.  
  
The two people revealed themselves as they neared to be a burly sixth year and none other then her own slimy classmate, Karkaroff. An unpleasant smile twisted the latter's features, creating an even more unattractive affect. The sixth year was not much more handsome, but had the air of slight dignity and repose, which caused, in turn the young Sasha to relax on his benefit.  
  
"Well, well! Look who it is! The little Winters girl crawling around in the snow with her owl. There is food back in the school for that beast; you don't have to dig up worms for it, you know, " he sneered.   
  
Sasha observed her younger self bristle slightly and her eyes glare like burning coal at her fellow pupil. He sniggered with a greasy voice, which was deadened by the snow.   
  
"Why do you say that? Are you hungry?" The fourteen year old spat stroking the smooth feathers of her pet. Karkaroff stopped laughing and looked at her with hatred. The older boy now stepped forward and spoke.  
  
"You are not allowed out here at this time, Winters, and if you go in now I will not report this to anyone," he said stiffly. It was obvious that Karkaroff had dragged him out into the cold to punish her. It was also clear that the older boy was irritated and wanted to get it over with quickly.   
  
"Says who?" She said coldly.   
  
"Just do what he says, Winters!" Karkaroff said viciously. Sasha stared at him in a mocking calm that seemed to provoke him. Provoke him it did, indeed. With a snarl he lunged forward at the young Sasha. She stepped back quickly, hating to think of being touched by him, but not quick enough. He toppled her over, sending Hermes into the air with a screech. They wrestled for a few minutes before the screaming sixth year could pull them apart. All three were breathing heavily.  
  
"I should have known better," the heaving, younger Sasha thought, "then to have motivated him. What has gotten into you?"   
  
Hermes gracefully landed on her shoulder and glared at Karkaroff, while the dreaming Sasha looked upon all, unseen, with a meaningful eye. The panting boy looked downright murderous at both girl and owl.   
  
And so it began, the hateful relationship sparked again, but this time it actually led to flames.   
  
  
…  
  
  
It was so snug, Sasha thought, groggily, as she snuggled unconsciously closer to a soft warmth as the night's dream began to diminish behind her eyelids. She reached up her hand, blindly, and pulled the warm pillow closer to her body. The morning may have come, but the nippy air hadn't softened one notch. Vaguely Sasha acknowledged the friction of a heavy blanket around her thighs, yet her greedy hands clung to the velvety cushion she lay against. "So soft," she thought as her mind began to slip away again but stopped as she suddenly recognized the slow rise and fall of her head. As she stiffened instinctively she could just make out a slow heartbeat coming form the pillow. Her eyes snapped open and took in the bright glorious light of day. She shielded her eyes with a lazy hand and blinked furiously. She observed the deck and the city below sluggishly, and the gentle rocking reminded her she had fallen asleep on the swing.   
  
Sasha felt a slight moving and turned her head sleepily towards the cushion she had fallen asleep on. It was no cushion.  
  
Severus Snape opened his eyes slowly, sleep still dwindling in his thoughts and reflexes, and looked down at the thing that clung to him desperately close.   
  
When their eyes met their faces betrayed mutual shock. Sasha quickly removed her hand that, when asleep, had crept up his chest to rest on his shoulder. She dislodged her head from its resting place on his upper body.   
  
Sasha moved back as her mind, to her great dislike, observed their situation with frustration. Snape had been, and was still, sitting up-right on the far end of the swing. "Did I crawl over to him in my sleep?" She though dismayed and utterly embarrassed. A blanket had previously been hastily wrapped around her, but in her slumber she had carelessly discarded it around her once curled-up feet  
  
Snape was facing her with surprise written all over his chiseled features, his body was straight and rigid, and it didn't look like he was breathing much.  
  
"I-I…what the hell are you doing out here!" Sasha snapped defensively, feeling the rise of indignation through her awkwardness.  
  
Snape became angry at her outburst: his eyes flashed but his tone remained level when he answered.  
  
"I came out here to sit while you were dead to the world, you're not the only one who enjoys this kind of weather," he hissed.   
  
"Well that's certainly not what you were doing a minute ago, now was it?" Sasha said angrily. Somewhere inside she knew that this uncomfortable situation was not wholly his fault, but she'd be damned if ever she admitted it.  
  
"Following your example, you mean? Yes, it was."  
  
The conversation halted at that and the lull in sharp words left room for rational thought. The looks of ire slowly washed away from their faces and there was a silence that followed only interrupted by the noises of nature.  
  
Sasha shot a sidelong glance at the Potion's Master. He looked dazed, and rather embarrassed and as Sasha eyes wandered to his wrinkled robes, where her hands had been earlier, the slightest warmth came to her face. Snape caught her eye and the heat increased a degree.   
  
Sasha blinked and stood up from the swing, causing it to buck slightly under the loss of weight. As she made to go inside a slim yet firm hand shot out and pulled her back. Snape had rose in an instant and Sasha found herself pulled closer to him, almost until touching. The tension grew as he glared down at her through ebony eyes, so dark they were almost hypnotizing. She was close enough to feel the tiny gusts of breath he made against her skin and to be able to count each and every perfect eyelash.   
  
Snape looked down at the woman he held too close. She looked collected enough, but her chest heaved almost above normal and when he scrutinized her deep eyes he found a reflection of fear. As he realized this his hand softened faintly.  
  
He scrutinized her carefully. Never had he cared, before, whom he associated with, who it was he could call his ally. Only Dumbledore seemed to fill those shoes responsively and Snape knew he could not survive, in the present world, with only one pair. An idea had presented itself long ago, before ever meeting her actual acquaintance, slowly, but as he had turned it over and probed its crevices, he had enjoyed what he discovered.  
  
Sasha's lips parted as she tried to find a thought to grasp and vocalize, but Snape beat her to it.  
  
"Come to Hogwarts," he whispered hoarsely, and he loosened his grip on her arm. If she wanted she could pull herself away and slip out of his blazing gaze. But she did not.   
  
  
....  
  
Review, or I shan't post the next chapter! I have it all written and waiting, too...  



	4. Special Intersocial Volition: Consent

Disclaimer: I do not own, in any way, shape or form these characters except, perhaps, Sasha Winters, an illusional invention of my mind's eye.   
  
Author's note:   
  
Thank you for those of you who have reviewed. Don't think of it as blackmail - think of it as… sprouting from your shell with the tiniest of assistance. ::smirks:: Don't worry, I shan't forget my promise. I have a pathetic exscuse which even makes myself cringe, and I am truly sorry. Don't worry, I have fixed the problem ::glares evilly at Comcast worker then kicks him and laughs sarcastically:: Eh. Hopefully this newfound internet access shall be a little more of a long term inverstment then the past- what?- month? Enough of this, just go and read, that's what we're all here for after all… ¦¬D  
  
Prologue  
  
Chapter IV:  
Special Intersocial Volition:  
Consent  
  
Sasha stared at him for a second. His words were washed away by the misty wind and at first she didn't understand what he had said. When she did her eyes widened in confusion, then embarrassment.   
  
"What? What could I do possibly do there, what position would I take?" It was more of a statement reassuring that she would not go then a question. She pushed away from the professor and looked at him squarely.   
  
"Potions," was the frank response.  
  
Sasha furrowed her brow a little and then looked up at him with doubtful eyes.  
  
"Isn't that your arrangement - Hogwarts' infamous Potion's Master?"  
  
"Flattered," he said dryly, "but you're wrong. I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts presently. I understand why you would think that I taught-" he gestured toward the heavy tome just visible through the window- " Potions." He paused and then began with a silky, cunning voice, which made Sasha want to smile along with his slippery smirk.  
  
"I know you are more then qualified. Ever since Dumbledore asked if I had any 'ideas of help' for the position being filled, as he put it, I have been closely observing your practice or conduct, and from what Stephen has told me-"   
  
"What!"   
  
He paused and quirked an almost resentful eyebrow as he continued: "I have only asked your former employer about where you received your education. After you got me the one book fro-" he stopped when he became annoyed with her blank expression.  
  
He stayed silent waiting, but when Sasha didn't say anything he became fairly upset.   
  
"You should be pleased, Winters, Hogwarts is quite an esteemed school-" he paused and added haughtily," the best in the nation…"  
  
Sasha almost smiled. Albus Dumbledore. She had heard much of him, a great much for an equally great wizard. Of course he was in all the Grindelwald biographies and 'Greatest Wizards in our History' volumes, but she had never had the honor of meeting him in person, well, not yet. And his school: Hogwarts. She did not belong there, did she? No: she belonged there about as much as Karkaroff did. She read The Daily Prophet often and knew about what had happened at the TriWizard Tournament two years ago.  
  
The dreamy look must have sprouted in her eyes because Snape was looking at her strangely. This time she couldn't help it; she grinned.  
  
Severus Snape gave her a loathing look that told Sasha he didn't like being smiled at. Sasha kept the cheeky grin on her face, however.  
  
"Pack your bags, we leave this place as soon as you are ready," he sneered. He proceeded to summon his cloak, while Sasha turned on her heel to her room.   
  
…  
  
In no time at all Sasha was walking up the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade and wandering through Diagon Alley, alone. Snape had gone ahead while she gathered her personal things from her home in London. The slight click of her shoes on the dirt and stony road followed at her heels. It was rather lonely, being months away from the new school year; just the occasional, daily customer bustling around or ranting about overly priced items. Then again, it was a Tuesday.   
  
Only the company of a small cage accompanied her up the long walk. Her other bags had been "forwarded" to Hogwarts - the name still jabbed her conscious mind. She was going to teach at Hogwarts.   
  
Her owl was sedate on the perch; it's eyes probing the streets at any movement or noise. It huddled on its roost; wings tucked neatly back and head bent low. It was a vermiculated eagle owl; the large black eyes narrowed…searching. His name was Rene.  
  
Ever so softly he cooed and Sasha turned to look at him. He was only four years old, with three years stay in her ownership. The colorless spots on his frosty black feathers along with the coat being flecked with snowy dots and splotches of white gave the impression of winter. Sasha ignored the pun as her mind wandered, irritably. Sasha quirked her head in amusement and Rene gently cooed once more and then lowered his head.   
  
"This is going to be a very…interesting…year," she mused. "Teaching Potions in Albus Dumbledore's school. How did I get into this again?" Her step was deadened and she faltered so slightly it was almost a mental flinch.   
  
"Surely the students will be a change," she thought. All those dead books, for all those years. How long had Professor Snape said he had been looking? Pages and pages - millions of pages had she scrolled and eventually memorized. The puzzle, the maze of rows and towers of volumes so thick with dust an Asthmatic would surely hyperventilate. That was, no, had been her life. Did these children read as much as she had long ago? She frowned a little: "I'm teaching children…I don't like children-" Pause, "Oh, and do you think Snape does?" Sasha had a good chuckle about that. The chuckle sobered quickly as the gates loomed closer to view. Nothing was perceptible through the dense trees inside the high guarding walls, not a single tower or steeple. Sasha reached the gates and reached out a stubborn hand to the locked handle. The Latin phrase was on the tip of her tongue to unlock the doors, so easily she could have rolled it off and been done. But her throat went dry and she stopped for a moment.   
  
"No turning back now. Blast Karkaroff and Drumstrang, blast them to hell." And as her fingertips touched the cold metal and her eyes searched the dark forest trees, she had no regrets.   
  
  
…  
  
  
"You're late."  
  
"My apologies, was there a set time? I must have missed that, then."  
  
Snape didn't respond, he just turned on his heel and led her up a flight of stairs. He walked very quickly, almost as if he had the intention of loosing her, which he easily could for every hall and stair was a foreign land to her. His dark robes swelled back and billowed in the drafty corridors as he walked. He took large, powerful strides and Sasha had to skip a few steps to keep up. Soon he halted in a deserted hallway. The tapestries were bright and musty at the same time, throwing off an odd contrast, while the paintings huddled between frames and whispered softly behind raised hands. A suit of armor could be seen far down the hall, and if they were to keep walking she could have gotten a better look. Instead she observed a large stone gargoyle that guarded seemingly nothing on the opposite wall.  
  
"Honey-bee tarts," he hatefully said and Sasha almost choked. What had he said? For a complete two mille-seconds she became confused; both from what he had said and his sudden movement towards the statue, before catching something big and gray moving out of the corner of her eye.   
  
The rock gargoyle had sprung to life with those distasteful words and now stepped aside to reveal an open passageway. Snape gave her a withering glance and walked through the portal. Sasha looked first at the gargoyle almost to blame him for her reaction, then followed quickly behind the professor.   
  
She was met with a large spiraling staircase, slowly revolving upwards towards a pair of great oaken doors. Sasha followed Snape as he placed both feet on the bottom stair and was carried aloft, revolving towards, what Sasha had now determined it was: Albus Dumbledore's office. Something scuttled down her spine like an icy demon racing over her bristling skin and swallowed into her toes. As they reached the entrance she paid more attention to her companion's arm reaching out and knocking fiercely with a bronze griffin knocker upon the doors. Again did she seem to acutely notice the soft, "Come in," that issued from within.   
  
…  
  
  
"Hello," Sasha greeted civilly offering her hand. Albus smiled warmly and took it into both of his. His azure eyes sparkled merrily behind half moon spectacles. The corners of Sasha's mouth twitched into what she pleaded herself to be a reassuring smile. It seemed to satisfy the headmaster for he turned to Professor Snape and smiled as he let go of her hand. His hands were lined and thin but warm and soft. His graying beard hung low to the belt of his starry, plum and silvery robes. Sasha had noticed the snoozing headmaster portraits along with the brilliant phoenix on its perch in the corner, eyes wide watching her skeptically. She had no reason against the magnificent bird, however, considering that Snape had practically knocked down the door with his beat on it.  
  
"Professor Winters, welcome to Hogwarts!" The headmaster exclaimed as he circled his desk so he could escort her to the door. "Let me give you the tour," he said happily.  
  
Sasha almost wanted to protest. She hadn't attained the job yet, had she? Surely the simple fact that Snape wanted her to have it did not suffice?   
  
But as Albus Dumbledore led her through the exit of his quarters, down the moving stairs, and out into the passageway she realized he was either desperate or Snape had said some powerful things. Neither idea did she enjoy.   
  
Albus had been speaking ever since their exit, only now did she begin to truly listen:  
  
"Severus has been our Potion's Master for many years, as he has also been the head of Slytherin House," he stated as he lead her away from the gargoyle and down towards a suit of armor. Sasha had heard of how Hogwarts divided into four houses: Gryffendor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and the said Slytherin.   
  
"It is quite an honor to be in your school, Sir," she said, gazing at the portraits and tapestries on the walls. "I heard so little about Hogwarts at Drumstrang that I knew little of what to expect." She took a sidelong glance at the Headmaster. He seemed to be content and smiling so she said no more.   
  
Albus led her through the Great Hall and to the common rooms of every house, then, finally to her quarters.  
  
Dumbledore left her with a few farewells and polite invitations, and after his absence Sasha walked around her new home. The floor was a hard, gray stone that matched the rough walls, and despite the lack of picturesque beauty, it suited her. The first room was rather large and reminded her more of a private study, then a common room. There was a large fireplace opposite the door and in one corner a massive desk and workshop. A deep red rug had been tossed upon the floor and two comfortable-looking recliners were situated near the fire. Candles were lit and hovering above here head in strategic places casting a mysterious glow about the room. There were no windows and Sasha remembered going down a few staircases on her way. She was probably near the dungeons, she thought.   
  
Sasha walked through a side door and into her bedroom. It was smaller then the former room, but well furnished. A queen bed fit perfectly into the middle, the silver and red drapings that hung from the ceiling fitting the rest of her accommodation's mood. She wandered around this room and through her private bath, which was not exquisite but lovely at the same time. When she was finished, the bags and suitcases caught her attention and she began to unpack.  
  
  
***  
  
Faithful reviewers, I salute you.  
  
Chapter five has been started, but only you can determine when I shall finish it.  



	5. Abstract Relations

Disclaimer: I have borrowed from Rowling.   
  
Author's Note:   
  
I don't want to spoil anything, but be careful with this chapter: it's from a totally different point of view and can probably be confusing. I most likely wont do this perspective anymore, but writing it was fun. I blame part of this chapter's tardiness on FF.N and mostly on myself, by the way. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.   
  
Prologue:   
  
Chapter V:   
Abstract Relations   
  
Today was the start of a very bad day. As Neville Longbottom stumbled along to the Great Hall for lunch, he tripped for the third time and went sprawling on his humbly round stomach. No, today was not his day. And what day ever was, he thought cynically. It was the beginning of term, of the new school year, first day, and already he had spilt his juice at breakfast, bumped into Hermione twice, lost 15 points for Gryffendor, forgot his quill in the Common Room, missed a homework assignment and fallen asleep in History of Magic. And that was all this morning. He dejectedly picked up his scattered books and a few homework scrolls thinking about his perpetual bad luck. At least half of the day was left, he sighed. Realizing he still had Potions to go to, he shivered. Potions was Neville Longbottom's least favorite class. One could even go so far to say he hated it. Eventually he reached the Great Hall and his lunch.   
  
He sat down at Gryffendor table and picked up whatever was on the school's menu. As he began chewing on a, what turned out to be, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he glanced over at Ron who was chatting animatedly with Hermione. It was barely the first day of school and already Ron was in the 'Quidditch frame of mind', demonstrating different things he had learned over the summer with his hands to an unresponsive Hermione. Neville could see why: she had a dark purple book open against her glass of water. Ron seemed to have noticed this too, for at that moment he turned to look at Neville and smiled.   
  
"Hey, Neville, how's your day been so far?"   
  
"Erm - okay…"   
  
Ron grimaced, remembering the morning's breakfast and History of Magic.   
  
"Oh, sorry."   
  
"It's okay, the day's almost over anyway, what about yours?"   
  
"Good, if I can survive Potions this afternoon."   
  
Neville groaned. "Don't remind me."   
  
Ron did just that and changed the subject. Now Neville was the subject of Ron's eccentric hand motions and Quidditch terms, most of which he didn't know.   
  
"Now Fred came up with this new plan that will surely win us the cup this year - though I haven't explained it to Harry yet, but I'm sure he'll approve - I mean, it's just bound to work, and it uses an ingenious play of the Porskoff Ploy and a Parkin's Pincer. Fred's a genius! You see, this is what happens: here are the goal baskets," (he moved some thinly sliced apples into position on his plate), "and here is the opposite scoring area," (more situating of apples), "now about, lets say, ten minutes into the game - or whenever Harry and the rest of the team want to - a Chaser will go here," (a dot of honey mustard), "another here," (another dot), "and here is Harry," (a dot of ketchup).   
  
"Now this is where the Parkin's Pincer will come in, or that is what the opposite team will think. Just as the third Chaser comes in for the squeeze, he will abruptly fly vertical, you know, like a backwards Wrongski Feint, straight up into the sky, trying to score. The opposite team will be a little confused, but follow him nonetheless. That's when the said Chaser performs the Porskoff Ploy and lets the Quaffle drop to one Chaser seemingly left below. And then - he'll score while the other team is trying to follow it all! Isn't it beautiful?"   
  
Ron sighed as he sat back a little flushed, looking over his mutilated plate. Dots and lines of red and yellow where all over his platter, one particular big yellow dot on a particular thinly sliced apple. Hermione looked over at the two of them, rolled her eyes and went back to reading. Neville suddenly realized something.   
  
"Hey, where's Harry?" He asked, looking down the table at the rest of the Gryffendor House. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a figure trot in though the Great Hall's massive archway, closely followed by another and walk over to their table.   
  
"Harry!" Seamus hallooed to the newcomer. It was indeed the Boy Who Lived, and Neville watched, interested, as he sat down beside Ron while the second figure, which turned out to be Draco Malfoy, stalked over to the Slytherin table.   
  
"No need to look so concerned. It was only Malfoy causing trouble." Harry said wearily and held up two tattered-looking halves of a backpack.   
  
"And if that wasn't bad enough, Snape came strolling along and immediately assumed that I had caused the disturbance."   
  
Neville decided to concentrate on his lunch. Hearing about his least favorite teacher wasn't going to help his nerves.   
  
  
When the last of his second sandwich was finished, Neville Longbottom followed Seamus and Dean out of the Great Hall. They walked together to Divination, up to that dusty tower and up the tottery latter. The smoky, thick scent filled Neville's nostrils like water rushing into a collapsed hole. Instantly he became dizzy. Finding his seat towards the back of the room he rested his spinning head on folded arms. Before he ever heard Professor Trelawney speak at all, he was sleeping like a baby.   
  
  
"Neville! Come on, Neville, do you want to be late for Potions?" Someone nudged him again, harder, almost pushing him out of his seat. He awoke with a start and looked around. He was still in the heady, pungent Divination classroom, if you could call Trelawney's sanctuary that. Seamus was standing beside him looking aggravated and urgent. He looked expectantly at Neville as the sleepy boy blinked and yawned a little.   
  
"Do you want to be late to Potions? I wouldn't want to get on our Professor's bad side already, if I were you."   
  
Neville jumped out of his seat rather quickly and grabbed his books and bag. No one was left in the classroom; even Trelawney was away in her private study connected to the schoolroom. Neville rushed to the loft's portal and clambered down the ladder followed by a hurried Seamus.   
  
"That's more like it!" Seamus gasped out as the two went running down the hallways towards the Dungeons. Neville could feel the hairs on his arms prickling with both cold and agitation. When they caught up with the rest of the Gryffendors, they slowed and caught their breath. A few of them shot Neville and Seamus curious looks but soon went back to chatting gaily.   
  
By the time Neville was able to breathe normally, the door to the potion's lab came into view, looming. Neville could feel his doom creeping through him, and a disappointment already laying a heavy hand on his shoulders for the accident he was bound to commit in the next hour. As the crowd of Gryffendors shuffled through the doors Neville followed with his head held low. When he looked up he discovered the greatest surprise he had found all day.   
  
The Potions classroom looked as though nothing had changed. The narrow rows of desks were all clean yet not polished in a dull sort of negligence. The cauldrons all loomed from the exact same places and the stone washing faucets with faces of gargoyles jutting out were still staring from the same positions as Neville remembered. No, this wasn't what surprised him so…   
It was the worst thing about potions, about the gloomy dungeons. This thing made his eyes grow that confused, large size.   
  
It wasn't the sinister, menacing atmosphere with its stone, dark walls and dull lighting. It wasn't the Slytherin crowd that snickered at him and tripped him in the halls. No, it was none of those things. It was the professor, or, more specifically: Professor Severus Snape.   
Yes, that was just it. He wasn't there.   
  
Instead of the normally looming figure of Severus Snape at his desk scanning the classroom or glaring at certain Gryffendors, Neville saw a thin lady with dark autumn-brown hair. He didn't pay much attention to her at first, too engulfed in the fact that the person in front of the class was not his hated professor.   
  
A clumsy grin sprung up on his round face and he walked with more of a bounce to his seat next to Hermione.   
  
"Isn't this great? I hope he's sick!" He whispered to Hermione as the woman took out a dirtied scroll of paper.   
  
"Who?" Hermione asked as she, herself, took out her Potions textbook.   
  
"Snape, of course! Maybe he'll be sick for a whole week!"   
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow in question but wasn't able to voice her objection as the unnamed woman stood up and stared at the class, waiting for silence. Like Snape, she had the power of keeping the class silent without effort. Her eyes looked as if they could catch anything and anyone: they were a deep blue, swirling and dark; and in little more then a few seconds both rival houses were dead silent. Her gaze sparkled, now, as it roved over each student and then looked down at the yellowed scroll.   
  
"Good afternoon, students. This is Potions, as you know of course, and I am here to teach you how to master brewing skills of the magical broth. You will learn how to create antidotes that will cure the majority of diseases, potages of the nastiest animal innards and brews that can make you clean up your lunch off the floor."   
  
It would have been better for Neville if her smile was friendly and not so chilly. Neville felt the trademark confusion bubbling up inside him.   
  
The very source of this confusion, the professor in Snape's stead, cut off his frantic musings, abruptly. "I am Professor Winters, and don't worry, I don't do nauseating potions often."   
  
Neville turned quickly to Hermione with a bewildered look plastered on his features. Hermione whispered so only he could hear her.   
  
"Snape doesn't teach Potions any longer," she paused for a moment as Professor Winters turned, giving Neville a few seconds of suspended silence.   
  
It was too good to be true. Right? He turned his eyes on Weasley, quickly. Ron looked content enough, not quite as glum as he usually looked with the Head of Slytherin teaching, but still looked rather unsettled. Neville couldn't blame him, for the Gryffendors weren't rid of the Slytherins, and their new professor didn't look exactly saintly. Eventually the wheels began to turn correctly in his jumbled head and Neville Longbottom began to accept the shocking information. Besides, he concluded, when was the last time Hermione was ever wrong?   
  
Neville was so happy at the news, now convinced that it was true, he felt like Harry Potter on a broomstick flying towards the golden Snitch…   
  
"He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, now," Hermione finished calmly. Neville suddenly fell off his imaginary broom.   
  
Why hadn't they announced the change and new professor during breakfast?   
'Oh, but remember?' -his usually silent memory spoke up- 'You were in the Dining Hall for Breakfast all of 2 minutes…' Neville recalled suddenly: After spilling orange juice all over his robes, he had scampered to his dormitory to change before the classes started. He had barely made it back in time.   
  
The Potion's Professor began to call roll, not looking up at anyone, and before long she was assigning partners for the rest of the year, and passing out long scrolls to everyone. Blaise Zabini from Slytherin was partnered with the doomed Neville, Harry with Seamus, Ron with Dean, and a very unlucky Hermione with the bullish Millicent Bulstrode.   
  
Everyone seemed to be scanning the long scrolls and Neville followed their example. He groaned out loud. A thirty-five inch scroll lay out before him, and at the top, in an emerald, very needle-like sliding hand it said very simply: 'Potions Sixth Year Quiz'. Had anyone known that there was a test? He surely hadn't. He looked at Hermione, which afterwards he decided wasn't the best of choices, for she was looking eagerly at the pop quiz. Instead he turned to Harry who looked about just as he did.   
  
"You have until the bell rings. Professor Snape told me you have studied all of this. You should have no real problems. Any questions before we begin?" She didn't really expect a response and she didn't wait for one either.   
"You may begin."   
  
  
Neville set down his quill with a heavy inward sigh. He was sure he failed the unexpected test, but at least, he thought, he didn't knock over a cauldron or blow up the classroom, which he was sure he would have done today. He still had a few minutes till the bell rang, uncommon as that was, so he let his mind wander like an unleashed dog.   
  
At least Winters wasn't quite so prejudice as Snape had been. Then again, Neville wasn't rid of him, but in any case they didn't have Defense against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins. Neville shivered.   
  
He eyed the Potion Professor. She would have been pretty if she didn't have that cold look in her eyes. Her hair looked soft, her skin was rather pale, but it seemed smooth and maybe too delicate for a Potions professor. She was thin, but with that slight muscular build that suggested she wasn't scrawny. Her height was threatening, and Neville guessed her to be maybe no more then six inches shorter then the former Potions Master. She looked sharp, shrewd even, and reminded Neville of a person who could read into a person for information. Neville hoped she wasn't quite as inexorable as Snape had been -- he wouldn't be able to handle fearing Potions *and* Defense Against the Dark Arts as much as he would if she was another draconian.   
  
Hermione had finished long before him and was scribbling frantically on a scroll with a book in her lap. It looked rather thick, and didn't remind Neville of any of his classes, gratefully.   
  
Before he knew it the bell was ringing and students were gathering their things. The Professor didn't even look up. No homework? For the first time that day, Neville's face broke into a huge, genuine smile.   
  
  
"I can't believe it, really?" Ron said shocked, as Neville leaned closer listening to the conversation at the Dinner Table that afternoon. Obviously the tête-à-tête at lunch had not proven at all effective enough for Ron to speak his mind at the earlier incident between Harry and Malfoy. It had only been a few hours since Potions and Neville's spirits were heightened. He didn't have Defense until Thursday.   
  
"He almost took points from Gryffendor, too." Harry added.   
  
"What are you talking about?" Neville asked a little dumbly.   
  
Harry, noticing him for the first time, turned and explained the conversation.   
  
"This morning, do you remember when Malfoy split my bag?" Neville only shook his head in bewilderment, still very confused.   
  
"When I almost got detention from Snape?" Neville was starting to catch on and nodded.   
  
"Well," Harry added turning to face Hermione and Ron as he spoke, "I didn't."   
  
"Why?" Neville ventured.   
  
"Professor -err, Winters - stopped him, but it wasn't much better then getting detention. She practically sided with him. Snape still looked rather mad, though, and he practically forgot Malfoy and I where even there."   
  
He nodded up to the Head Table where a very poisonous-looking Defense professor was brooding and their Potions Master sat, eating her meal slowly. Neither of them spoke much to anyone, at all. Just short, terse things to questions like, "Could you pass the gravy, please?" Or no response at all.   
  
Neville wondered what could have made their day worse then his used to be.   
  
  
  
  
  
"Conscindo!" A whiney voice spat out. Harry spun around only to be confronted with a sneering Draco Malfoy and the infuriating tearing sound of leather in his ears. He unconsciously reached around and felt the old backpack that was hitched over his shoulder. It was torn, as he had guessed, considering Malfoy's spell was well targeted and the syllables of the Latin phrase were perfectly pronounced, he already knew that his bag was split.   
  
Before he knew what he was doing, Harry leveled his wand at his arch-rival and glared ominously at Draco.   
  
"What the bloody hell was that for!" He practically shouted. His fingers tightened on his wand and a spark flickered from the end of it.   
  
Malfoy seemed to be considering something, then his pointed face broke into its trademark smirk. His eyes seemed to level above and beyond Harry's head and Harry suddenly had the feeling Draco was no longer looking at him anymore.   
  
"Potter," said a softly cold voice from behind, "what exactly do you think you're doing?"   
  
He knew before he ever turned around that it was Severus Snape, the one teacher who had singled him out the first day of his first year at Hogwarts school.   
  
"Malfoy split my bag, Sir." He said calmly, though he didn't feel quite so calm. Nothing including Snape and Malfoy combined could ever have a good result.   
  
Turning, Harry was surprised to see someone else with Snape: Professor Winters. She smiled serenely at both boys before allowing Snape to sweep past her.   
  
"Unfortunately I did not see that part of your little display," he said, the greasy smirk practically dripping from his lips.   
  
Harry felt his face burn as a million remarks came to the tip of his tongue and were promptly swallowed down with a bitter aftertaste. Draco snickered behind him, softly, spurring Harry to say something.   
  
"I haven't done anything wrong."   
  
"He almost cursed me professor."   
  
The two conflicting statements floated in the air like a deadly gas mixing waiting for a spark to ignite a blaze. Snape quirked a sharp eyebrow and his eyes narrowed onto Harry. Before he could say anything biting, Winters slid up in such a way that Harry was temporarily distracted into thinking of how much it resembled a serpent.   
  
"He's right, he didn't do anything," Sasha said slowly looking first from Harry to Draco, then back at Harry. "I know how taunting a Malfoy can be."   
  
It was the way she had said those few last words that made a vein tick in all three people around her. It all seemed to strike a nerve and twist it sharply within them. Malfoy looked like he had been hit in the face, and if Harry himself had been thinking properly he would have predicted an owl to Luscius Malfoy. Harry himself felt as though he had been insulted, not truly by the words, but by something more in her tone. Then there was Snape, who looked as though his fingernails were digging their own graves in the flesh of his palms.   
  
"This is none of your concern Winters," Snape said as he turned his back on Harry and Draco to face her. His eyes turned a pitch black with malice.   
  
Something flared deep in her eyes, something Snape had surely seen, for he was no less as shrewd as she; something akin to defiance. It subsided quickly and she lowered her eyes slightly, submitting to him.   
  
Snape was beginning to clench and un-clench his fists and he swiveled to look at Harry and Malfoy before stalking away not unlike a mountain cat on the prowl, long black robes billowing predictably out behind him.   
  
Sasha looked up slowly, confronting two pairs of glittering eyes, and said softly, "you boys had better get to lunch. Young growing bodies need food. Off with you." Harry turned quickly on his heel, not wanting to be around either of them any longer and wanting to sort out his thoughts. Malfoy simply shrugged and turned after Harry.   
  
Winters waited until they were out of sight and a comfortable distance without any sounds of a further disturbance before turning her back on them and began down the corridor Snape had taken.   
  
  
  
  
***   
  
Next chapter coming soon...


End file.
